


Radiant

by MrsCaulfield



Series: Collection of stories [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Takes Care of Aziraphale (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, Expansive discussion on miracles and celestial forces, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Post-Apocalypse, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:42:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24806401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsCaulfield/pseuds/MrsCaulfield
Summary: Buried in thoughts of Eden, where his heart learned to shift and move and flutter and race, he finds only solace in the first being to set it in motion.*Post-Armageddon, Aziraphale notices some changes in his body and struggles to cope with them. Crowley, of course, will not allow him to go through it alone.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Collection of stories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1780507
Comments: 30
Kudos: 150
Collections: My faves - Good Omens Whump





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission piece for Mal / @Malorkai, who wanted a Hurt/Comfort fic wherein Aziraphale experiences symptoms similar to arrhythmia each time he tries to do miracles as punishment for averting Armageddon and betraying Heaven. I have to admit, this was a bit of a challenge but the idea was so interesting that it simply had to be done. I hope you like it, Mal! <3
> 
> (Sidenote/disclaimer: After posting this, I have been reliably informed that the UK does not actually have any orphanages anymore, but my dumb East Asian ass had no idea 😂 so please just humour me in this fic for the sake of angst, thank you)

Aziraphale is alone the first time it happens.

Seated by the dusty shelves in the backroom of his cluttered bookshop, the retired angel suddenly finds himself with a ton of free time after the world did not end. It’s deep into the night. He’s never been a huge fan of sleeping, but he’s starting to wonder whether it is about time he try to take up the hobby.

But that is a decision he will make later on. For now, he sits by the dusty shelves and carefully turns over a leaf on one of his prized books. Wholly engrossed, his right hand reaches blindly for the winged mug of hot cocoa, which has now reached a tepid state.

Circular specs frame wrinkled grey eyes as he squints over on the sloshing words across the page, his vision blurring ever so slightly. Might definitely be a good time to consider availing of that ‘nap’ that so many humans _(as well as one lone demon)_ subscribe to. His eyes don’t leave the page as he sends a tide of grace to his fingertips, feeling the stirrings of a miracle within his veins, and soon enough the mug is steaming once again. He lifts it up to his mouth and freezes.

His heart, which has never attracted much attention in the 6000 or so years that he’s been on Earth, is racing wildly in his chest.

It isn’t painful, so to say, just _odd_. His heart has never had reason to actually beat before, much less come barreling full speed as it does now. He sets the mug down, pressing a hand over his pounding sternum. The rhythm is far too quick, even by human standards. He takes slow, deep breaths to try to get it to calm down, but it carries on unabated.

His fingers tighten on the fabric of his shirt. “ _Goodness_ ,” he whispers to no one in particular, his eyes wide. “What on earth is happening?”

Perhaps it’s a flaw with the new corporation that Adam gave him? In any case, it doesn’t seem like much to worry about.

It takes a full hour before his heart settles back down to full silence.

* * *

His feet pad awkwardly over puddles as Aziraphale hurries to take shelter under a shady tree. It had been a beautiful clear and sunny day—one of those rare ones, that it only felt natural to call Crowley on the phone and invite him out for a stroll. Weather can be so unbearably fickle these days, thinks Aziraphale as he shakes droplets from his golden hair and watches as the downpour around him builds intensity. He shivers slightly against the cold, hoping that Crowley had at least thought to bring his car over.

“Tough luck, eh?” says a voice somewhere from beside him. He looks over and spots a middle-aged lady with dark brown hair and a crimson satchel. Her eyes are tired, but her smile is bright and infectious. “The _one_ time I forget to bring an umbrella with me and this happens,” she continues, chuckling weakly.

Aziraphale smiles back. “Indeed. I’m afraid I am under the same predicament.”

“Where’re you headed?”

“Oh, just waiting for someone,” he replies, briefly wondering where Crowley might be. “I had hoped this would be a nice day for a stroll. And you, ma’am?”

“I do some volunteer work at the little orphanage nearby.” Her eyes begin to sparkle as she speaks, and Aziraphale feels the familiar stirs of warmth pooling in his abdomen. _Love._ This woman loves that orphanage. “Haven’t been in a while. Things just went crazy at work.”

“That’s lovely. I’m sure the children must be dying to see you.”

“Thanks.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks out at the pond. “Hope this rain stops soon. I’m supposed to be helping them set up their little theatre group today.”

“Out of curiosity,” Aziraphale pipes up after a couple seconds of comfortable silence between them. “Where might this orphanage be exactly?”

Her face brightens up visibly. “You’re interested in volunteering?”

“Well, I… have no children of my own, you see.” He bites back a giddy smile. “However my, ah, _companion_ is quite fond of them.”

“How nice.” She opens her bag and begins to rummage through its contents. “Hang on, I have a card here somewhere. I must’ve— _oh!_ ”

Aziraphale puts on an expression of pleasant surprise as she brings out a purple umbrella.

“Would you look at that? It seems it was right there all along.”

Her bewildered face gave way to pure joy that tugged on Aziraphale’s heartstrings.

“I could’ve sworn this wasn’t here a moment ago! Have I gone mad?”

She unfolds the umbrella over her head. Using her free hand, she reaches back inside her bag to grab a card and hands it to him. “Here you go,” she says in a tone much more enthusiastic than before. “We’d love to have you over some time!”

Aziraphale takes it gratefully. “I will be sure to do that.”

“And bring your partner with you, too!” She points a finger at somewhere over his shoulder. “Is that him, by the way?”

At this, Aziraphale whirls around and spots none other than Anthony J. Crowley, sauntering over the same puddles he himself had not-so-gracefully sidestepped just a moment ago, his clothes bone dry and his red hair in a still perfect coif. Aziraphale resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Ah, yes. That would be him.” The exasperation is evident in his tone.

“Well,” says the woman, beginning to walk away, “we’ll be glad to have both of you over. Have a nice day!”

“You too, dear.”

He jumps as Crowley’s arm drapes around his shoulders. “You’re wet,” says the demon in a disgusted tone.

“And why aren’t you?” he snaps, stepping away from the demon. “You can’t just miracle yourself immune to rain, Crowley! The humans will _wonder_.”

“As if they ever pay close enough attention.” Crowley sniffs loudly into the air, his nose wrinkling. “’Sides, you’re one to talk. The sickly scent of _grace_ is thick in the air, angel.”

“I was discreet!” Dark spots appear to cloud his vision and he blinks them away harshly. What is it with this weird weather? He feels lightheaded all of a sudden. “Anyway, do you have your car with you? We might as well return to the shop."

Crowley shakes his head. “It wasn’t raining when I left.”

Aziraphale groans. “Very well then.” He holds up his palm, and with a quick pull, a long tartan umbrella appears within his grasp.

His vision goes completely dark for a second and he stumbles on his feet. Crowley catches him by the elbow.

“You alright there, angel?” Without a second thought, Crowley takes the umbrella from him and opens it up over their heads.

Aziraphale nods, but the edges of his vision start to blur. “Quite… Perhaps I really must be going back home.”

He takes a moment to reorient himself with his surroundings, wiping his suddenly clammy palms over his trousers. Crowley stands still, watching him.

“You look pale. What’d you do last night?”

“Nothing. I am _fine_ , Crowley.”

The demon doesn’t try to argue with him, but the edge of concern remains in his voice. “You okay to walk, then?”

His vision returns to normal, though there remains a slight buzzing inside his head. It’s manageable, so he nods.

They begin to walk, Crowley a half-step before him, holding the umbrella over them both. Crowley’s silence and frequent glancing at him starts to bother Aziraphale.

“I’m not made of glass, Crowley,” he mutters.

“Didn’t say you were.”

“I’m fine.”

“’Course you are,” Crowley replies, slowing down his step so that Aziraphale presses close to his side with Crowley’s arm in between them, holding up the umbrella.

Aziraphale sighs and places a hand to clutch onto Crowley’s bent elbow. He isn’t drawing up magic, but he can feel his clothes drying up against his skin. Crowley keeps his gaze trained forward.

In truth, it takes quite a bit of effort to continue the trek home. He leans much of his weight on Crowley, and neither of them choose to mention it.


	2. Two

Aziraphale wakes up the next morning on his worn armchair due to a rough pounding on the walls of his ribs.

He’d accidentally fallen asleep, and the book that he’d let slip onto his lap clattered to the floor. He breathes, only his breath comes out in ugly wheezes. He presses a tightly clenched fist onto the center his chest.

_What is happening?_

This is far from the mere flutter he’d had the other night. It’s insistent and it _hurts_. Blue-grey eyes wide with panic look around the room and settle on the rotary phone. _Crowley._

He staggers to his feet—and instantly regrets it. His head spins as all the blood seems to drain out from it. A sharp yelp is drawn out from his throat when his knees buckle, and he falls into a heap on the floor, utterly helpless and completely alone.

He rolls onto his back, setting a pace for his breathing. The sound of his racing heartbeat mixes with the loud heaves from his respiratory tract. His face has long gone numb with the effort of inhaling and exhaling. How does he make it stop?

He has no idea how much time passes with him just lying on the floor, willing a normal rhythm to come to both his pounding chest and his staggered breaths. The phone rings and he glances at the grandfather clock. He and Crowley are due to have brunch in a few minutes.

It’s a struggle to get his limbs to work just enough to support his weight when he gets up on two feet once again. It feels as though his ribs may split open at any moment, but he drags his feet over to the other side of the room and answers the phone.

“M-my dear, I—”

 _“Morning, angel. You ready to go? I’ll be there in five.”_ Crowley’s voice, smooth and confident as always, manages to reassure him just a tiny bit.

He sighs into the receiver. “Actually I…” He takes in a deep breath because his voice is too shaky. “I just remembered I’ll need to do some inventory today. I’ll, ah, see you some other time. Next week, perhaps?”

Crowley is silent for a few seconds. _“Is everything alright?”_

“Tip-top,” he chokes out. “Nothing to worry about.”

_“Yesterday, I thought… Well, you sounded really excited and I—I had hoped… Y’know what? Never mind. Take care, angel.”_

The line goes dead.

Aziraphale drops the phone and crashes back onto the sofa. It’s so hard to think. His brain is all fuzzy and he still has no idea what is happening. Was there anything peculiar he’d done recently? This shouldn’t be—

_Oh._

The miracle he’d done for that lady. He’d summoned two umbrellas yesterday, he supposes that may count as peculiar. Still, on the spectrum of miracles those hardly should have counted. He’s never had problems performing frivolous miracles before and had willfully indulged in them all throughout his years on Earth.

Unless.

Unless that’s exactly why this is happening.

The dizziness returns and he clamps his eyes shut, trying to decrease the overwhelming sensations about him. Even so, the glass windows are still letting in too much light. _Too much light._

Miracles are what angels do, but he isn’t exactly an Angel of the Lord any longer. Not since he’d decided to turn his back on Heaven and stop Armageddon. Not since he’d chosen Earth and the humans over his duties as a Principality. Not since he’d chosen _Crowley_ , who has proven loyalty to none other than Aziraphale for as long as the age of the Earth itself.

Aziraphale can’t ever disappoint him. Not after everything he’d put him through. He deserves better than that.

If he tells Crowley about this now, it’ll all be for naught. He’d only burden him with problems that they don’t have a solution to. No. Crowley can’t find out, not until Aziraphale finds a way to fix it.

He stays curled up on the sofa for the rest of the day, willing his racing heart to slow down—or to just stop beating entirely. He doesn’t even need the bloody damn thing and yet here it is, clawing at the walls of his careworn corporation. Greedy and rebellious as it beats and perhaps, just an apt punishment for someone like _him_.

Out onto the ethereal plane, where his wings rest and his soul pours out in its entirety, he feels himself slipping, losing his grip on the last sliver of grace he’s been clinging to.

A wretched sob rips from his throat, his body curling into a tight ball. This is it, he screams in his head. The last vestiges of his strength seeps out of him.

_No more miracles._

* * *

He is able to keep it up for about a month.

Much of this time was spent adjusting to this new aspect of his life. Aziraphale’s initial hypothesis that his episodes are triggered whenever he tries to do miracles is proved to be correct. He tries the simplest things. Heating his cup of tea. Summoning his pen from one side of the desk to the other. Turning a page of a book without using his hands. They still work, but the moment he does he feels the familiar incessant thrumming in his chest, and he is frozen in terror of thinking what comes _next_.

He still sees Crowley, but he’s had to cancel a few more plans and he fears he may be drawing up suspicion. He’s halfway to fully understanding his condition but still has no idea how to fix it. Each time, he tries not to think too hard about the evident disappointment in Crowley’s voice, or the heartbroken look on his face whenever Aziraphale refuses to let him into the bookshop after a nice dinner together. It’s for his own good, after all. But by now, Aziraphale is running out of excuses.

It’s all been too much. He decides to distract himself with re-organizing all his books under a different, but no less complex, sorting system. In the past, this task wouldn’t have taken him more than an hour’s work. But today, he resolves to do it the human way, which will probably take at least a few days.

On the first day, he works without stopping. He takes books out of the shelves until they’re all emptied out, and he sits on the floor and sorts them onto different piles. He can feel the joints of his corporation creaking, not exactly used to this much manual labour. By the end of the day, his back is sticky with sweat and his arms are sore, but he is grateful for any other pain that he could feel. Any other pain that isn’t _that one_.

The next day, he thinks it may have been better if he had gotten some sleep over night because he’s starting to feel lightheaded again and there’s a strong pulse pounding in his neck. It appears his new also isn’t fond of strenuous activity. Even so, he has a job to do. He trudges on and keeps working.

On the third day, he wakes up from a four-hour sleep. His body feels considerably more rested, and while he still cannot fathom how humans are able to do it for 8 to 10 hours each night, he is beginning to see the appeal of it.

The brief period of rest seemed to have quieted his heart back to its usual dead silence. When he gets up, his head surprisingly doesn’t plunge into murky waters. A small mercy. Each step is still an effort, his breaths coming up slightly short, and his temper on edge along with it.

He is weak and tired and incapable, but it isn’t fair for him to complain. Humans must be accustomed to pain all the time—with their fragile little organs enclosed in flimsy flesh and bone. But it’s the metaphysical aspect of his weariness that distresses him the most.

He glances into the mirror and sees beyond the skin. There is no gold in his veins, no light in his eyes. He feels for the thread of the Heavenly host and grasps deeply into the void, reaching nothing.

Detached— _disposed_ , more like. An empty vessel.

Time passes by quickly as he continues on his humble task. He’s stacking some prized first editions on one of the topmost shelves when the bell above the door jangles, the sound shrill and heavy to his ears. He scowls.

“I believe the sign _clearly_ says we are closed for the week!” he calls out, arms outstretched as he nudges a couple of hardbounds away from the edge. He may have miscalculated a bit on their width, as a portion of their spines hang out beyond the wooden surface. He groans in frustration.

“And one does wonder when any sign has ever stopped _me_ , angel.”

One foot slips off the edge of his stool and Aziraphale braces a hand on the shelf, gasping for breath. He whirls back to see Crowley, a bag of takeaway food in his hands. His lips curl into a light-hearted smirk that sends a quiver to Aziraphale’s spine. Even so, a weight settles heavy in the pit of his stomach. He swallows a lump against his throat.

“My dear boy, I didn’t ask for you to be here today.”

He steps down from the stool, clutching tightly on the shelf with a silent prayer for it to be able to support his weight. Crowley has a careful eye on him the whole time.

“Well, I haven’t seen you in a while and I was grabbing dinner and thought you might be hungry.”

“Ridiculous,” replies the angel, striding towards him to take the package off his hands. His heart is in a frenzy, though it feels nothing like the attacks he’s experienced prior. It may, in fact, be wholly unrelated to them. He scurries off into the closest empty surface he could find—which happens to be his desk, and places the food down. “We’ve only had lunch last week. We used to go _decades_ without seeing each other.

Crowley follows not far behind, slinking soundlessly. The quizzical expression on his face is set in stone, and Aziraphale fears for a conversation he is not ready to have.

Because _of course_ Crowley would know. It’d been foolish of him to think otherwise.

“What’re you not telling me, angel?” Crowley’s voice is practised. Reeled in and mellowed. Hovering over the edge of a precipice. “Why’re you avoiding me? Did… did I do something wrong?”

He struggles to come up with a satisfactory response, and his breathing still hasn’t returned to normal, making it even more difficult to focus. But he forces himself. He has to come up with an intelligent response or Crowley would _leave_. And he would— _could_ not, consider that possibility. There’s no way he would survive it.

Severed from everything else, Crowley is all he has—all he’s had all throughout. _Always_. Frustratingly. Constantly.

Aziraphale takes a breath. It hitches in the back of his throat and it’s raspy when it comes back out, but he _was_ a Principality, and he _could_ be brave.

“I may have encountered a slight defect in this new corporation of mine. Nothing to fret over, I assure you. But it’s taking me a while to get used to.”

He doesn’t stop to see what Crowley’s response would be. He grabs a random pile of books and returns to the shelf he’d been stacking. Sorting system long forgotten, he shoves the books into empty spaces at random. Crowley appears at his side, one arm leaning on the edge of the bookcase.

“That so?” There’s a hint of mockery in Crowley’s tone that makes him squirm slightly, but he decides to ignore it. “Shall I give the Antichrist a ring, then? Sure it’s nothing he can’t sort out, gave you the body and all.”

“That-that won’t be necessary. I am quite alright.”

It’s a logical conclusion, and nothing that Aziraphale himself hasn’t considered before. But after weeks of mulling it over it became clear that his condition extends far beyond his corporeal form, and not even Adam Young, whose powers draw from occult rather than ethereal sources, would be capable of fixing it.

“ _Angel_.”

It’s the dejection in Crowley’s tone that gets to him. As though he’s lamenting the loss of something that is yet to fully leave. Aziraphale resists the overwhelming urge to reach out to him and huffs, pulling out random books in front of him and arranging them in a different, just as random, order.

“Angel, talk to me.”

He stays silent.

Crowley pounds a fist onto the side of the bookcase, startling Aziraphale out of his stupor. “Satan, bless it! You can’t just _do_ that!”

“Do _what,_ exactly?” he quips back haughtily.

Crowley’s lips pull up into a snarl. “Shut yourself off like that. _Our_ side, have you forgotten? Or is this all just a joke—”

“No, I am fully aware of whose side I am on. That doesn’t mean I have to seek your thoughts, permission, and approval on everything I do, Crowley.”

“I am not asking you to!” Crowley is unhinged, yelling and quivering—a wholly agitated mess of a being. The walls seem to shake around him, or it may just be Aziraphale’s vision blurring again. He isn’t quite sure. “Aziraphale, I-I don’t understand. I’ve tried to give you some time but something’s happened to you, and I can tell you’re dying to tell me but you’re not for some reason.”

“Why can’t you just leave it?!” Finally, he risks a glance at the demon.

Crowley combs strained fingers over his hair, clenching red locks inside his fist. “Do you expect me to just sit here, then? Right. ‘Course. I’m just a vile demon, after all. Why would I care?”

“N-no! Darling, I would never—!”

The distress is evident in the demon’s features and he is so shocked he takes a frightened step back. Any moment now he expects Crowley’s effervescent rage unleashed. His mouth opens to form the words, hurtle them at the angel. Aziraphale winces and braces himself for it.

But something snaps within Crowley, and instead of a barrel of well-deserved curses, his mouth clamps shut, lips pressed and going startlingly white. Aziraphale barely gets the chance to process this sudden change when the entire building starts shaking.

“Crowley!”

Crowley is still as a statue, his head bowed, a hand still clenched in his hair. Aziraphale doubts he was heard over the rattling of all his possessions. Shelves sway back and forth and Aziraphale could feel the _fear_ wafting off of every single one of them as though he is back in Crowley’s garden, watching verdant green plants respond to their master.

“Crowley, shut it off!”

If Crowley had heard him at all, he makes no indication of it. The precariously stacked books from the top shelf jump overboard and Aziraphale has lifted a palm up before he knows it. The strain of grace is there, but he struggles to feel around for it. He finds a sliver, latches on, and hastily drags his hand back down.

All at once, the shaking stops, and the books hover half an inch above Crowley’s head before sliding off to the side, grazing his shoulders.

Aziraphale grits his teeth. At the very last second, he loses his grip, and the books fly off into the wall on the other side of the room, crashing miserably onto the floor.

Aziraphale has his eyes wide open and for a second he sees Crowley finally coming to, golden eyes a cesspool of immense shock and worry. Then, his vision goes pitch black.

“ _Aziraphale?_ ”

He hears his demon’s beautiful voice, but it is distant. Weighed down with agonising dread and he wants to focus on it. His anchor. The grip on the last string he has on any sort of reality he’s still willing to live in—but his knees hit the floor with a thud and his departed consciousness doesn’t even leave him a chance to try.


	3. Three

Aziraphale wakes up in the backroom, sprawled out on his sofa. A throw pillow has been wedged under his head and one arm is pinned underneath his body. He pulls it out and rolls to his side, coming face to face with a head of ginger hair.

Crowley sits on the floor, his long legs outstretched before him. His arms are crossed over his chest and his neck is craned downward as he sleeps not-so-soundly. The position does not at all look comfortable, and Aziraphale feels a pang of guilt. How long had he been out? He glances at the clock once again. A couple of hours, at least.

The first thing he notices is that his breathing has finally gone back to normal. He can still feel his heart beating, but it isn’t racing or pounding or even fluttering. It’s a whisper against his ribcage, rhythmic and almost _human_. The sensation is new but comforting.

Crowley begins to stir. It’s not likely he’d fallen into a deep slumber with the oddity of his position. He cranes his head back, stretching his neck, and blinks blearily up at Aziraphale.

“Crowley, I am deeply sor—”

“Fuck, you’re okay. _Are_ you okay? I didn’t know what to do, angel, I didn’t—”

Aziraphale reaches down to wrap his arms around Crowley’s shoulders. “I’m alright, darling. I’m sorry for frightening you.”

Crowley presses his face to Aziraphale’s forearm, sighing deeply. “Angel, I don’t think I can go through that again. _Please_ just tell me what’s wrong.”

This is it, then. There is no prolonging it any further. They are finally going to have the dreaded conversation.

“I think there is something wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with _you_.” Crowley grumbles, leaning his head back to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Just tell me what it is and we’ll find out who did it.”

“Actually, I already know _who_ did it. Or at least, I could think of only one reason that would warrant such a thing.”

Crowley stiffens. Likely because he already has an idea what Aziraphale is implying.

“What did they do to you, huh? Did those twats Gabriel and Sandalphon come here when you were alone?”

Aziraphale shakes his head and leans in, burrowing his nose into Crowley’s hair. “No, dear. I haven’t seen any of the Archangels since the apocalypse, and I doubt they’d think me worth the trouble of confronting.”

Crowley rubs a soothing hand over his arm, urging him to continue, and it helps keep his mind clear. He focuses on the scent of fine shampoo underlain with more subtle ash and brimstone.

“They cut me off,” he whispers after a long moment of tense silence. He waits for Crowley’s reaction, but he only sits there unmoving. “I’m not certain if they’re punishing me for frivolous miracles or if they are weaning me off gradually, but I feel it. The angelic essence being dragged out of me. It drains me all the time.”

“That can’t be true. They can’t do that.” Crowley seems certain of it and so he believes it. Aziraphale knows little about the events of the First Ever War as he hadn’t been around to witness it. And though Crowley would never talk about the events before Time itself came into being, Aziraphale is intelligent enough to gather that Crowley is a far more ancient being than he, more knowledgeable on the affairs of both Heaven _and_ Hell, and he trusts him completely. “It must be something else. A workaround to try to make you feel that way.”

Aziraphale gnaws anxiously on his lip, realising just now that Crowley may actually be right. He feels like a right idiot for not telling him sooner, for thinking that he could get through this without him.

He tucks his face into the crook of Crowley’s neck. “They’ve damaged my heart.”

Crowley pulls away from his grasp. He turns around, balancing on his knees. There are weary lines on his face as Crowley’s hand comes up to cup his cheek.

His eyes, though nothing short of their usual breathtaking appearance, are a cacophony of inscrutable emotion.

“That’s not something even _my_ lot would do,” he says, absolutely horrified. Rage swims in his golden pupils and Aziraphale leans into his palm, turns his head to press a kiss in the middle. The fire flickers out into a more subdued form of shock, then worry. Crowley heaves a sigh. “Bastards! I’ll storm in there. I’ll rip their pathetic arses in half!”

“Crowley—”

“Who the _fuck_ do they think they are? This isn’t some—this is your _heart_ , angel!” There’s a sound akin to a broken sob erupting from Crowley’s throat, and it breaks something in him as well. “They came for what they know would hurt you the most.”

Maybe it’s been a long time coming. In retrospect, the way the other angels have treated him have never been that kind. So maybe Crowley’s remark shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

“I think perhaps, that you are right.”

“You should have told me sooner.”

Aziraphale nods. “I realize now how stupid I was.”

“Angel. Please be honest with me. Will you do that for me, love?”

A spark of hope sends his stomach fluttering at the unexpected endearment. He lets out a shaky smile and nods again.

“Tell me exactly what you are feeling and let me help you get through them.”

Aziraphale pauses to recollect everything. Crowley sits patiently, his thumb drawing circles over Aziraphale’s cheekbone.

“I can still do miracles, but it… takes quite a bit of effort.” It feels good to finally let out what’s been distressing him for so long. It feels good to be with Crowley, to have him close by, even if it’s just to listen to him. There could be other things ailing him but on _that_ he can always rely on. On _him_. “They come at a price. If it’s only a small miracle, my heart would flutter for a while, but for some larger miracles it’s much worse. It’s as if my heart is going to crack my bones open. Sometimes I can’t breathe or I get dizzy or I get painfully light headed. I am tired all the time, it almost feels like I’m human. I need to eat and sleep more often—though I still haven’t gotten the hang of the latter, I’m afraid. You’re going to have to teach me that.”

“And when you counteracted me earlier, that was too big of a miracle for you,” says Crowley darkly. “Angel, I am so so sorry.”

“Darling, don’t be. You didn’t know.”

“But I was so angry. I shouldn’t have let that get the better of me, should’ve just asked you what’s wrong so I could take care of you.”

“Hush.” Aziraphale leans in, brushing their noses together. “This is all so new, and I didn’t know how you would react but I… I’m glad you are still here.”

Crowley’s brows pull into a deep frown. “How could I leave you?” he says, honey-golden eyes drifting shut. “I’ll always be here. I swear on everything above and below and whatever’s in between.”

Aziraphale kisses him.

Crowley makes a surprised, pleasant hum. He’s always wondered what it would be like to kiss Crowley. He didn’t expect his lips, constantly equipped to release the most cutting remarks, to be so soft and easy to sink into. He’s read about humans kissing in novels, and it’s always this whirlwind trainwreck of a thing—setting off sparks, alighting nerves, and sending limbs flying.

In the end, though, Aziraphale _isn_ _’t_ human, and he feels none of those things. Instead, he closes his eyes and sees calm cobalt blue, an image of seafoam drifting atop flowing water, blending with skies as clear as they were back in Eden (for never have they been as clear since then). And buried in thoughts of Eden, where his heart learned to shift and move and flutter and race, he finds only solace in the first being to set it in motion.

“I love you, Crowley,” he murmurs when he pulls away. It’s shaky and heavy with concern about the uncertainty of what’s to come, but it’s been building up for so long that it overpowers every other ailment and hesitation he feels. “I am ever so grateful for you.”

Relief washes over Crowley’s features. “Yeah, I…” he trails off, a blush evident on his cheeks. Aziraphale only now realizes that Crowley might not have seen that kiss coming. Crowley clears his throat. “Of course you know that I. Well. Feel the same, with you.”

He smiles. “I do.”

“Then… I think we have plenty of stuff to talk about over dinner, don’t you think? You can orient me more with all this, and after that I’ll teach you how to take advantage of a full night’s rest. Sound good?”

Warmth that is very different from Heavenly light seeps into his veins as Aziraphale pushes himself up into a sitting position. He looks at Crowley and feels almost radiant once again.

“Sounds wonderful, my dear.”

* * *

“We’re about to miss our reservation, Crowley!”

“You know I drove as fast as I could. It’s _parking_ that’s being the right bastard.”

“No. This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t overslept.”

“My alarm didn’t ring!”

“For _six hours!_ ”

“You make it sound like it’s a bad thing. Happens all the time, I assure you.”

Aziraphale groans loudly, his face tight with annoyance. He looks out at the window and huffs. “This is why I get so uneasy when you decide to return to your flat. It becomes alarmingly difficult to get a hold of you!”

Crowley peers over the hood of the Bentley and heaves a frustrated sigh. He lifts a hand off the steering wheel and with a decisive snap, an empty space opens up on the curb before them, and he slides the car right through.

“There. We’ve two minutes to spare. Happy?” Crowley asks as he switches off the engine.

A morose expression takes over Aziraphale’s face, but he hardens it before it could go any further.

“Quite,” he says contritely and exits the car without sparing the demon a single glance.

Aziraphale walks briskly. Crowley, with his longer legs, catches up to him just barely. Aziraphale’s hands are balled into fists at his sides, but his companion takes no notice of it as he goes on to talk about the re-emerging popularity of bell-bottom jeans.

“Doesn’t look so bad,” says Crowley once they’ve taken their seats inside the restaurant. He gives the room a critical assessment. “If the food’s any good, I can see you wanting to go back here from time to time.”

Aziraphale glances at the menu and doesn’t respond.

“What d’you wanna order, angel? Think I’m in the mood for pasta for once. Don’t really care which kind, though.”

“I think,” Aziraphale says, his voice tight, “I will order some tea.”

Crowley’s glasses fall down the bridge of his nose and his serpent eyes widen as he looks at the angel. “And what will you have _with_ the tea?”

“Nothing. I’ll have tea and then I’m done.” He slams the menu shut.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been raving for months about wanting to go to this place!”

“Well, I am not hungry.”

“Aziraphale… What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Bollocks.”

“I said I am _fine_ , Crowley!” He snaps, his lips pursed in carefully tamed anger. Crowley shuts up, nodding silently. He beckons the waiter over to their table.

Aziraphale remains silent for the rest of the dinner. Crowley inserts a few remarks every now and then, but the angel seems not in the mood to humour him. The entire date and even the drive back to the bookshop is tense and silent, and when Aziraphale unlocks the front door, Crowley finally breaks.

“Angel, look. Whatever I did to make you mad at me, I’m sorry, alright? Please, just talk to me.”

Aziraphale doesn’t even spare him a look. He hangs his coat and moves smoothly in the direction of his kitchen. Crowley follows a few steps behind.

“Why don’t you just tell me what I’ve done wrong?”

Aziraphale slams a mug down on the countertop with a loud thud. “Why don’t _you_ realize what you did wrong?” He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply. “…I apologize. That may have been unfair of me to expect from you.”

Crowley lets out some wordless noises in his confusion. Lamely, he finishes with, “Whatever I did, I’m just sorry.”

Aziraphale doesn’t reply.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Crowley turns back around. “Should probably just go now. Don’t wanna make things worse or anything. But uh… you can call me, any time. If you want. I’ll check up on you tomorrow.”

He takes a step forward, but is held back by a forceful tug on his sleeve.

“Crowley, no.” Aziraphale has Crowley’s coat pinched within his grasp and there is shifting resolve in his stormy grey eyes. “I don’t… That is, I’m scared—”

He doesn’t have to explain any further as Crowley pulls him into a one-armed hug. “Right, I’ll stay then.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale murmurs into his shoulder.

He knows that he still owes Crowley an explanation but for now, he’s exhausted. And when Crowley slides under the bed covers next to him, he lies down on his side to face him. Crowley is on his back, his chest rising and falling quietly. Aziraphale falls asleep easily, focusing on the sound of Crowley’s breathing.

* * *

He awakes from a bad dream where he was falling.

Aziraphale shoots into an upright position, sucking in huge gasps of air which there suddenly isn’t enough of. Beads of sweat roll down his forehead as he grips the sheets so tightly he can feel strings of thread cracking between his grasp. His chest is pounding uncontrollably, and his eyes dart worriedly over his surroundings. He’d been very careful not to perform any miracles as of late. Why is this happening?

“…’Zira?” Crowley stirs beside him. Aziraphale slumps back down to the pillows as dizziness overtakes him. “Angel, w-what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale slaps both hands to his sternum, willing it to expand and compress, because there simply isn’t enough _room_ and he’s just panting pathetically. His fingers dig into it, marking crescent-shaped indentations with his nails through the fabric.

“Is… Is this the same as before? Just nod or something. You don’t have to talk.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “S’not,” he says thickly in between breaths.

Crowley nods in understanding. After all, Aziraphale has helped the demon through a few panic attacks throughout the centuries. Tears prickle the angel’s eyes and roll freely down his cheeks and soon enough, sobs overtake his shortened breaths. Crowley pulls him to his chest, rubbing a hand up and down his spine.

Crowley rambles freely at the top of his head. “Angel… angel, don’t cry. You need to get your breathing back. I’m here, love. I’m here.”

Within a few minutes, he manages to stop crying. He clutches onto Crowley’s waist like it’s a lifeline, feels the rise and fall of the demon’s chest and attempts to match his own breathing with it. Crowley peppers kisses into his hair, his strong and steady arms never leaving him.

“I think, my dear boy, they are right after all,” Aziraphale whispers hoarsely, his cheek squished against Crowley’s non-beating heart. He burrows his face deeper into it.

“Who’s right?”

“All of them. Heaven. The angels. They… I was called a pathetic excuse of an angel when I got discorporated.” It’s a small relief to find that he’s able to talk again.

“You should’ve given them a talking down to.”

“I did.” Another set of tears escape him, rolling sideways and pooling on Crowley’s shirt. “But it seems they’re right after all. I wanted to save the humans, Crowley. I wanted to help them. But now I-I can’t even heat my own tea without setting off a dozen alarms with Heaven and in my own body. And you have to admit, it’s quite clever of them. What use is an angel who can’t even help people?”

Crowley’s arms tighten around him suddenly. “It was the parking, wasn’t it?”

Aziraphale nods, knowing that Crowley will feel rather than see it.

“That was uncalled for. I’m sorry. I should’ve known better than to use my powers just like that.”

“No, you don’t have to.” Aziraphale sighs against him, and not for the first time, is astounded by how considerate his demon could be. “I always appreciate you doing things for me. I know you only did it because I was getting impatient but… It will take me some time to adjust to this new state of things between us.”

Crowley leans down and kisses his forehead. “If I ever do something that bothers you like that, promise me you’ll tell me, alright? I won’t get mad and I’ll try to be better the next time.”

“Yes, my dear.”

“How are you feeling now?”

“I think I’m alright.” His heart has slowed down to a steady thrum, but it’s probably the effect of being in near proximity to Crowley. He shifts his legs, one foot coming up to slide against Crowley’s calf, eliciting a light shiver from him. He relaxes into the demon’s hold.

“Can you go back to sleep?”

“I’ll try.” In all honesty, he doesn’t feel like he could, but the idea of lying still in Crowley’s arms until daybreak doesn’t sound so bad.

A wrinkle appears between Crowley’s brows as he regards Aziraphale’s reply. He turns them both onto their sides, and inky black wings shoot out to envelop them completely.

Aziraphale cannot see a thing. It’s like being enveloped by the galaxies, by black void and faint starlight. He can only feel Crowley against him and hear his calm, non-staggered breathing. Blinking makes no difference, and he cannot any more tell whether he has his eyes open or closed.

“You’re radiant,” Crowley’s voice comes. It’s a soft and rumbling murmur, yet it echoes off the plumage and wraps around Aziraphale from all directions. “You ask me what kind of angel can’t do miracles, but you’re the _best_ kind, Aziraphale. You give and you love so much, that the only thing Heaven could think of as a way of punishing you is to take away your ability to help people. But you know what? You’re not letting that stop you. I doubt it’ll work and they’ll see it soon enough.”

Aziraphale breathes into his collarbone, dark and light overtaking him at the same time. “But… how?”

“You’re more than your miracles, angel. You help out of your own goodness, and you don’t need your powers to do that. I’ve seen you do it before.”

“Crowley…”

“And so what if you can’t magically summon things anymore? There’s goodness everywhere in this planet. You see humans help each other out all the time. _That_ _’s_ the kind of goodness you are, angel. The purest kind.”

“It’s different. I am not human.”

“Humans are all the more admirable for doing good because they can choose not to do so.” A hand comes up to stroke his hair. Lips press onto his temple. A symphony of comforting sensations. With all other senses blocked out, Crowley’s voice imprints onto him like words of Scripture. “You’re like that now, too. You’ve the perfect excuse not to do good duties anymore, but you still want to. And you _will_.”

“You are… so insightful, my dear. How is it that you make everything easier to understand?” Aziraphale can feel slumber creeping back up on him, and he knows no more nightmares will taunt him that night. “I love you so much.”

“Love you too. Sleep now, angel.”

There are still a lot of uncertainties, several mysteries for them to solve. And yet, even if Aziraphale’s heart never returns to how it used to be, he finds he isn’t so scared anymore of losing his miracles. He feels tired and dejected without them, and the struggle of accessing what remains of his grace is a constant reminder that Heaven still has a hold on him. But he doesn’t have to face these alone. He and Crowley are on their own side and they are together, in every sense of the word. Ready to face anything.

“You make me happy, Crowley.”

He is a little surprised to see that Crowley is still awake. He hums into Aziraphale’s hair.

“Good thing I’m not going anywhere, then.”


End file.
